“That seriousness is just what I liked in him,” replied the Squire. “He might have been an Englishman. None of your confounded French airs and graces, like that young scamp of a cousin of his.” “Why, papa, I am sure,” protested Amelia, “you yourself spoilt Louis de Saint-Ermay when he was over here!” “Well, well,” said her parent, not denying the charge, “I daresay I did. I am afraid that young reprobate always has been spoilt, and always will be.” But Trenchard had a sudden vision of the spoilt child of fortune with his fettered arm and his set, smiling mouth as they jogged along the interminable road to Candé. “Still, do you know,” he said frankly, “I was very much taken with him. He was hurt, you know, but he—— Ah, here is Mademoiselle coming back.” Amelia got up to meet her guest. Trenchard reflected that the girl had not spent much time over her lover’s letter. On the other hand, the missive had undoubtedly had a salutary effect upon her appearance; she looked much happier than she had done when she took it from him. He supposed—and had a glow of self-congratulation on his perspicacity—that she had hurried back in order to hear from him further details about her betrothed. Well, to furnish her with such would be a pleasant enough occupation. “Mademoiselle will no doubt want to hear more about Monsieur le Marquis,” he said in pursuance of this idea. “Anything further which I can tell her is very much at her service.” “Thank you, Monsieur,” said Lucienne shyly; “but I shall be tiring your patience, and, besides, we had your interesting story. . . . Still, there are one or two questions. . . .” There were a hundred; would she have time to ask them? Surely, since one of her ghosts was laid, laid by the letter. Gilbert had not interpreted her swoon as she had feared; had he done so, he could never have written like that. The secret was still safe, thank God! . . . Was it she, afterwards wondered Trenchard, who had withdrawn him from the rest, or had he led her apart? Perhaps it was the others who had melted tactfully away. At any rate, he soon found himself, by no means to his displeasure, pacing up and down the bowling-green alone with this beautiful creature in her clinging white and her large black hat. “And now I want to hear about M. de Saint-Ermay,” she said in a light tone, after a few questions duly answered about her betrothed. “I know him very well. He was not badly hurt, I hope?” And Trenchard had no idea that, under the filmy scarf which floated about her in so graceful a manner, her hands were gripped together till the nails dinted the flesh. “No, I suppose not,” he answered a little doubtfully; “otherwise he could not have ridden so far. But perhaps that was his pluck. He looked deuced bad at one time.” The girl put up a hand to the ribbon at her throat, and he wondered why women could not leave their fallals alone. The brooch on the velvet was not unfastened.